


Dressed, Undressed

by AuroraCloud



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 18th Century, Clothing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Characters, Femslash, Fondling, Hair-pulling, Historical, Historical Dress, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Paris (City), Pre-Episode: s07e07 The Bells of Saint John, Pre-Season/Series 08, Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21386710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraCloud/pseuds/AuroraCloud
Summary: After her regeneration into a female body, the Mistress roams Earth history in search of suitable outfits. In 1788 Paris, she finds a dressmaker's shop with a lovely young seamstress whose large brown eyes and saucy demeanour appeal to her. The Mistress decides to get to know her a little better...Missy/Echo Clara.
Relationships: Missy/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 7
Kudos: 91
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2019





	Dressed, Undressed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacewitchescantdie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewitchescantdie/gifts).

Paris in 1788 is a hotbed of rumors, rebellion and anger. The Mistress drinks in the sweet scent of revolution to come, of order to be thrown into chaos, ideals to blaze and crumble into destruction. It'll be beautiful.

She isn't here to foment destruction, however — the French are doing just fine by themselves. She's only taking a walk across times and places to feel out her new, female form and personality. At last, she knows she has regenerated into the person she should be. She's glad to be rid of that previous self, so crude, so crass, so nonsensical about his needs. Now she's got taste, now she's got style. Now she's going to do things right.

She is, presently, looking for a seamstress.

Not any particular seamstress; just one who's good enough to make her a dress. She is delighting in her womanhood and, like anything she has ever done or been, she is going to flaunt it. Humanity's pre-spaceflight history is dazzlingly full of intricate, extravagant fashions for women of means, and the Mistress is always going to be a woman of means. 

She has already tried some past centuries. Fashions of Ancient Greece and Rome were too simple for her taste, and Medieval European costumes are just not her. They signal far too much of what humans call virtue (such an ugly word, in any language, designed to chain you to a nothing). She was much more pleased by the gown she had made in Renaissance Italy, but she wishes for yet more extravagance. You cannot get more extravagant than pre-Revolutionary France, she reasons, and here she is. 

Her Renaissance gown has attracted more than a few comments — humans on Earth are so stupidly insistent about fashions belonging to particular decades. She has grabbed a coat and a scarf to cover the upper part of the dress, which is the most conspicuously non-18th century part of the dress, but she refuses to have anything to do with powdered wigs. She has, however, stolen a delightfully large hat with enormous feathers, which she believes looks very well on her.

She enters a dressmaker's shop. The dressmaker herself is a middle-aged woman in luxurious but tasteless clothing, which makes the Mistress consider leaving. The dressmaker is showing fabrics to a much-powdered upper-class woman, but she pauses to measure the Mistress with her gaze. Her eyes linger on the skirt of the gown, perhaps noticing its unusual fabric and shape, but something convinces her — perhaps it's the hat, perhaps simply the fact that the Mistress tends to be given what she wants. (A lot of the time, anyway.)

"Clarisse!" the dressmaker calls out. "Come out here to serve the new customer!"

When the girl Clarisse enters, the Mistress knows she's going to stay.

The girl is perhaps twenty, which makes her since long adult in these times, yet young. She's also striking. She is a small yet curvy creature, impossibly beautiful with a lush mouth, well-coiffed brown hair (none of those ludicrous wigs, thank goodness), and large brown eyes that widen with the sharp intake of breath she takes as she locks eyes with the Mistress. There is a strange jolt in the Mistress's senses beyond the visual. There is something strange about Time around this girl.

Clarisse is exquisitely dressed in a light red underdress and a darker overdress, with a plunging neckline that compliments the voluptuous form of her breasts, half bared against the luxurious ruffles of the edging. Her pretty hands are framed against layers of delicate white lace at her cuffs. Wide skirts of the era hide her hips, but she carries herself with sensuality and power. When the Mistress has finished looking down the girl and looks into her face again, there is a sweet blush on her cheeks, but her eyes gaze boldly into the Mistress's. She curtsies. "How may I help you, Madame?" Her eyes flicker at the Mistress's gown, then at her face again, as though she is trying to puzzle something out.

"I wish to have a dress made," she replies, "suitable for walking and daytime visits. Please start by helping me choose a fabric."

"Of course, Madame…" She looks questioningly at the Mistress.

She gives the girl a made-up name, and they proceed to a back room, to look at packs of fabric. The Mistress takes delight in gazing at the girl, taking in the luscious curves of her lips and her body, enjoys making her bend over the fabrics again and again, displaying the fullness of her round, white bosom that wishes to spill out against the well-crafted neckline. Clarisse clearly knows what she's talking about, and there is a sauciness in her that delights the Mistress. She wishes to pin that beauty against the wall, to unpeel her layers and discover how her seams come apart. 

"Madame, I would suggest a firm colour," Clarisse says, "you have a strength of character and expression which requires a strong shade. If you do not want reds, I have an exquisite plum muslin here…"

"Have you ever been to another time, Mademoiselle Clarisse?" 

The girl looks at her in puzzlement. "What do you mean, Madame?" She seems honest, no matter how the Mistress probes her. Yet there is a sense of echo about her, like there is a reflection of her cast throughout time.

"There is something about you that transcends time," the Mistress says, and the girl's cheeks flush a pleased pink. Let that pass for flirting, then. 

"There is something unusual about yourself, Madame," the girl responds boldly. "And not only because you are wearing a masquerade dress in the middle of the day."

The Mistress smiles. "I have my reasons."

"But why…" The girl stops, and shakes her head. "I don't know what I'm saying, forgive me. Let us see about the fabrics."

They settle on the plum muslin, and Clarisse begins to take her measurements. The Mistress has to remove her coat for that, and her bodice needs to be undone. Clarisse helps, with nimble, practiced hands, but when the bodice is unpeeled, she pauses and looks into the Mistress's eyes.

"I admire your authentic gown," she says. "I've seen its like only in paintings. How did you come by one in such a good condition, Madame?" She fingers the dress.

The Mistress slaps her hand away, lightly, and says: "You keep doing your job, mademoiselle Clarisse."

The girl looks affronted, but then their eyes lock, and the feeling seems to melt away as she watches the Mistress. "I shall, but you don't need to slap me."

"Pardon me," the Mistress says. "Some girls like being slapped."

The girl blushes furiously and looks down. But then she lifts up her chin again and says defiantly: "Well, I prefer to choose when I'm being slapped." She straightens the Mistress's shift and undershirt with deliberate movements. In so doing, fingertips graze skin, they press on her waist, and the Mistress feels a fire light up low in her own groin, reaching out for the girl.

Then Clarisse takes a measuring tape from her belt, and next her nimble hands are pulling the tape across the Mistress's front. The Mistress can feel her own hearts beating in tune with the tight pulsing much lower, pumping heated blood through her. From Clarisse's tense breathing, it feels as though she can hear them, too. The Mistress feels herself tightened as though she is a seam being sewn together. The measuring tape drapes across her bosom, and Clarisse's fingers graze over her breasts, and the Mistress sucks in a hot breath. 

"You have a fine figure, Madame," Clarisse says, a bold smile on her lips, her eyes on the Mistress's collarbone or lower. "It'll be a pleasure to dress you."

"Thank you, little one," the Mistress purrs. "I should say you possess an excellent figure yourself." She allows her gaze to linger on the soft skin of Clarisse's heaving bosom. "And excellent taste in dressing it."

"Thank you, Madame," Clarisse says, seemingly humbly. But when her eyes meet the Mistress's, they are bold with flirtation and challenge, and she smiles saucily.

The Mistress hasn't been known to linger when she knows what she wants. She snatches the measuring tape from Clarisse's fingers and loops it around the girl's waist, pulling her close. Clarisse gives a startled laugh and token resistance that is more foreplay than anything else. "How should you like if I picked you up in my carriage after your workday finishes?"

Clarisse draws in a breath to reply, then says nothing, and instead studies the Mistress with her mesmerizing eyes. "What are you?" she asks quietly. There's a searching, questioning look in her eyes, almost as if she can sense that there is something out of the ordinary about the Mistress, though unsure what.

Well, it's probably just her winning personality. The Mistress smiles. "A woman who likes what she sees and knows what she wants. Are you interested in learning what you want?"

"You think I don't know already?" Clarisse whispers with a saucy smile. 

"I think you could learn more." The Mistress almost touches Clarisse's lips, but then withdraws her hand. 

Clarisse stares for a moment, and her bosom rises against the Mistress's with each quick breath. "I finish at sundown, Madame," she finally replies.

At sundown, the Mistress is back at the dressmaker's shop. It only takes a few moments for the door to open and Clarisse to appear,. She looks more modest now with a redingote over her dress and a scarf covering her neck and keeping the curls of her coiffure in place. But there is nothing modest about her eyes as they meet the Mistress's, and she doesn't hesitate when the Mistress leads her to the carriage she has rented. Good. She likes the bold ones, they're such fun. And in this age of heady extremes, she wants someone with a lust for life and adventures.

"What do you want in life, Mademoiselle Clarisse?" she asks as the carriage makes it way towards the rooms she has hastily rented for her stay.

"I don't know, Madame", she says, looking surprised at such a serious turn of questions. "For the longest time I thought I wanted to have my own dressmaking practice and become as famous as Mademoiselle Bertin. But it doesn't seem like enough anymore." 

The Mistress smiles. "Not enough to be the dressmaker to the Queen?"

Clarisse purses her lips. "I mean… It doesn't feel like the right sort of ambition. I like my occupation, but there's more to life than making lavish dresses for a pampered queen. You're not from the city, are you, Madame? I spend all my time in Paris, and there's all this change in the air, I can feel it. I don't know what's going to happen, but something will, and that'll change my life, too." She bites her pretty, plump lip.

"How do you feel about that?" The Mistress knows fully well what's going to happen, but has the sense not to divulge the details.

"Excited, I guess." Clarisse cocks her head and studies her. "Why are you asking me all this, Madame? Why am I telling you? I barely know you."

"Well, my doll, we're about to know each other a lot better," the Mistress says, smiling, showing her teeth. "It's nice to… learn some things about each other first, isn't it?"

"But I know nothing of you," Clarisse says. "What do you want me to call you?"

For a moment, the Mistress thinks it might be nice to have a name like humans do, for a while. But she says: "Just call me Madame." 

Clarisse laughs a little. "Are you a government spy with a secret identity?"

The Mistress snorts dignifiedly. "As if I would work for petty human governments. No, my dear little Clarisse. I transcend time and space, I seek the glorious, the beautiful and the sublime."

"Oh," Clarisse says, and smiles boldly. "Such as me?" Her hand moves across the space between them to rest on the Mistress's skirt, touching her thigh. 

The Mistress puts her hand on the girl's and is glad that the carriage ride isn't long.

The Mistress has reserved wine and cakes for her little Clarisse, to seduce her slowly. But when they enter her apartments, she can only keep her hands from the girl for a few moments. Then she pulls Clarisse close and kisses her, open-mouthed and possessive. Clarisse makes surprised sounds against her mouth, but doesn't pull away. After a few moments she begins to kiss back. When the Mistress slips her tongue into the girl's mouth, Clarisse moans hungrily and responds.

There's still a strange taste of time around her, and the Mistress wants to chase those echoes, but she also wants to chase the taste and feel of the girl whose tongue is in her mouth and whose hands are grasping at the back of her dress, and she thinks screw time, and just gives herself over to the lust. Time can take care of itself later, it always does.

Clarisse is an expert kisser once she gets the hang of what the Mistress wants to do. Clarisse's body feels intoxicating against hers, the fullness of those soft breasts, the swell of those hips under the wide skirts. The Mistress quickly gets rid of Clarisse's coat and scarf, to better touch that lovely body.

She bites that delightful plump lower lip until Clarisse whines against her mouth. The sound only makes her more excited, but Clarisse struggles until they disengage. Clarisse glares at her, ineffectively as her eyes are dark and her breathing shallow. "You bit me," she says accusingly.

"Oh, you like it," the Mistress replies lightly.

"I like niceness better." 

"You wouldn't have come with me if that was true." The Mistress spins the girl around so her back is pressed against the Mistress, and she sees the mirror in the back of the room. It's small, because this is no Versailles, but enough to show Clarisse from head to waist. "Look at that girl", the Mistress purrs low against Clarisse's neck. "Isn't she capable of more than just _nice_?" 

She kisses her way down Clarisse's neck, inhaling her scent. Clarisse doesn't resist, and the Mistress presses more kisses on her shoulder. The girl moans, throwing her head back so her throat is more exquisitely bared. The Mistress lets her hands roam across the soft expanse of Clarisse's bosom, cups the girl's full round breasts, fondling them, pushing them to curve even more out of her generous neckline. She admires the effect in the mirror, and sees Clarisse staring at it, rapt, her mouth half-open and her eyes shrouded in desire. 

The Mistress continues caressing and kneading Clarisse's breasts, enjoying their weight and softness. The girl's breath grows heavier every moment. The Mistress presses herself as close to the girl's hips as she can, frustrated that she can't properly _feel_ them under all those layers of dress. 

"Clarisse," she breathes, nibbling the girl's neck. "What a lovely thing you are, Clarisse." Her fingers seek the fastenings of the girl's dress.

Clarisse only responds in heated, short breaths, her head thrown backwards. She looks so sweet, but it's clear she is much more than sweet, and certainly not innocent. She is no stranger to being fondled by a woman she barely knows, and seems ready to enjoy pleasure to the fullest. The Mistress slips one hand into her deep neckline, fondling, and whispers the girl's name again.

It would be nice to have a name that is deceptively sweet, the Mistress thinks. She likes the sound the name of Clarisse makes. _Perhaps I can be something as soft and deceptively sweet. Missy, _she thinks, and laughs out loud. Clarisse looks surprised, but doesn't ask what she's laughing at, maybe because she's too busy panting from arousal. _Missy_ — not necessarily the right name here, in France, where the word for Mistress sounds different, but it'll fit in other places. As she thinks about this, her questing fingers find the peak of Clarisse's nipple, erect from her attentions. She grins with delight and squeezes. The girl moans and arches her back.

"You like that," Missy breathes, and withdraws her hand. The girl whines in protest, but the Mistress begins to undo the laces of her dress. She wants to get her hands on the girl properly and get the dress out of the way. Women's clothes of this era are all too complicated; it takes her time to undo the lacing. Then again, that is a part of the appeal. She would enjoy dressing herself in many intricate layers. But the wide skirts, while beautiful, are frustrating.

When she manages to undo the dress, she slides it off Clarisse's shoulders, leaving her to stand in a white shift, a corset, and layers of wide petticoats. Clarisse's bosom is now even more delightfully exposed, and removing some of the petticoats reveals the shapeliness of her hips. Clarisse helps her by wriggling free of her clothes as Missy removes them, but she seems to be entranced to look at the spectacle in the mirror, her beautiful self undressed by Missy's hands. 

At last Missy undoes the corset and removes the undermost layer. Clarisse's heavy breasts tumble free, the generous curves of her backside are bared for the Mistress's eyes to enjoy. Missy presses her fully clothed body at the naked girl's back and pulls her close. She cups one generous breast, admires it's fullness, roundness and softness. Her fingers feel the soft underside, the tender, rosy nipple. Clarisse closes her eyes and moans quietly. Missy rubs her hips against the girl's curvy backside. Her clothes press against her sex to provide lovely friction. Delightful sensations in this delightful new body. She has little patience left, and she moves her fingers between Clarisse's legs, seeking her center and finding it, hot and wet and willing. Clarisse gasps. 

Missy feels her way into her, slips a finger inside while rubbing the swollen nub with her palm. Clarisse's hips undulate against her movement, and the girl moans and watches in the mirror as Missy fucks her with her fingers, as she fucks herself on Missy's hand. She's clearly quite far gone already with all their touching and fondling, and ravenous for more. With her other hand, Missy continues caressing Clarisse's lovely breasts, teasing the hardened nipples. She bites Clarisse's neck, and thrusts her fingers deep inside, again and again. 

Soon Clarisse is moaning out loud at every thrust, and the movements of her hips grow stronger, the Mistress can feel the demanding pulse inside her on her fingers. The girl is slick and hot, and doesn't mind it when the Mistress bites her collarbone, leaving marks. 

Missy rubs Clarisse's clitoris intently with her thumb while continuing the movements of her other fingers inside the girl, seeking the spots that get the loudest moans and gasps. As the heat rises, Clarisse turns her head, tries to seek a kiss, but Missy only grants her a light bite on the earlobe while continuing the merciless movements of her hand. Finally, the girl cries out as her orgasm rolls out of her in waves. With her fingers still inside her, wringing out every bit of pleasure, Missy presses the other hand to the girl's temple: to better touch the girl's mind and senses with hers, to feel her pleasure more intimately than a human lover could.

She takes Clarisse to bed after that. Even post-orgasmic, the girl's seamstress fingers are quick to undress her, quicker than Missy herself can manage the myriad laces and buttons. It's a relief to be rid of the wide and cumbersome robes. Clarisse trails kisses and licks down her breasts and belly, caresses her thighs with eager ease. When her fingers touch Missy's heated, sensitized sex, Missy takes hold of her wrist. "Not your hand," she says. "Your mouth."

The girl's eyes widen — maybe in this age, oral sex isn't the thing it will be later. Probably has to do with the usual hygiene standards of the day. But Clarisse obeys, and though her lack of experience in this activity shows, she is enthusiastic, which has its own charm. The Mistress enjoys her efforts, the softness of her lips and the quickness of her tongue, even if her skills are clumsy. She's close already, she won't need that much finesse to come. 

She grabs fistfuls of Clarisse's hair as she bucks her hips against the girl's mouth, delighting in the pulsing and tightening between her legs. She'll never be a man again if she can help it, this is so delicious, and seducing women is more fun when she's a woman herself. 

As Clarisse's tongue laps at her and the girl sucks her clit with enthusiasm, Missy pulls Clarisse's hair so tight that the girl squeals. But she doesn't stop, and a few more movements of the tongue bring Missy over, so that she shouts out her pleasure with abandon as waves of pleasure roll out of her, again and again and again.

When she is finished, they both collapse on the bed, Clarisse's head on Missy's belly. Clarisse turns to gaze at her. "You like being rough, don't you?" she asks, breathless, her hand brushing the skin between Missy's breasts.

"Sometimes," she replies. "You are a delightful little pet in bed."

Clarisse looks put out. "I'm nobody's pet."

The Mistress laughs. "Do you want to find out what else I like?"

Clarisse contemplates her for a moment. Whatever she sees seems to be alluring enough (of course it does) because after a moment, she shrugs, smiles saucily, and says: "Why not? You're rather nice in bed, too."

Nice is not a description the Mistress has ever heard for herself, nor one that she wants to hear. She shows it by pouncing on Clarisse, pinning her down to the bed, and proceeding to show her all kinds of things she likes. It only occurs to her much later, as the girl laughs and pants in exhilaration in her arms, that this probably was exactly what Clarisse wanted. 

When they're done, too tired for more repeats, they lie tangled up in sheets and each other, the air around them heavy with musk, sweat, and sex. Missy lazily trails her hand on Clarisse's chest; Clarisse is watching her with just a touch too much fondness. 

"Will you be here another day?" Clarisse asks.

She shrugs. "Perhaps. I'll be back to collect my dress, at least." Though she suspects the 18th century isn't quite her style, it would be a shame to let a good dress go to waste. She may find use for it from time to time, and the fabric is first-rate. Besides, if she returns, it's likely Mademoiselle Clarisse will indulge her again. She seems like an indulgent kind of girl. No reason to waste that, either. 

Clarisse leans across to kiss her, stupidly tender but pleasant all the same. "If you're back earlier, let me know," she says, her voice low.

The Mistress makes no promises, but she pets the girl enough that she settles down and doesn't ask more questions.

Clarisse soon falls asleep by the Mistress's side, which is a silly human thing to do, but the Mistress is too wrung out by hours of pleasure and several orgasms to kick her out of the bed. Besides, it's a good opportunity to tune into that strange sense of echoing time about the girl. Perhaps she hasn't time-travelled yet, but will in the future. And if she's time-traveling, most likely the Doctor is involved. Unless it's Missy herself, in some future. In any case, she has to know. It's important she knows what the Doctor is up to and who he associates with. Because… it is. 

And who knows, if this girl isn't reserved for anything else yet, perhaps the Mistress will be able to serve her as a nice little gift to the Doctor. He does enjoy his pets so. This bold little human with big eyes would be right up his alley. Friends give friends gifts. It's proper. Even if you've already enjoyed the gift yourself. 

Yes, she resolves as she turns over to catch a moment of sleep. Whatever she finds, she'll have fun with this one yet.


End file.
